


Firelight

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Banter, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1296478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos and Porthos are forced to make camp for the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firelight

**Author's Note:**

> With no specific direction to head in, my mind wandered down the 'random smut' route...

“Stay still.”

“You’re not as gentle as Aramis.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if you stopped squirming.”

Porthos gave a grumpy huff and tried to hold his arm still. Athos couldn’t condemn the man his tetchiness – his skill with a sword far outweighed his skill with a needle – but he suspected Porthos was exaggerating his discomfort just to make his point. There was one thing Athos was able to readily provide, however, that another might not.

Leaving Porthos’s side for a moment to root amongst the pile of their equipment, he returned and offered the injured man the flask he had retrieved. Porthos hitched an eyebrow but accepted the proffered beverage, taking a grateful swig as if it were some kind of healing tonic rather than alcohol.

“Don’t drink it all,” Athos warned, perfectly seriously, as he returned to the task of stitching up the laceration on Porthos’s bicep. It was not a deep cut, but had bled enough to warrant attention.

“Might need to if you keep jabbin’ me like that.”

“I’ve never known you to complain so much about so small a scratch.” There was a fondness behind Athos’s words that equalled the affectionately teasing nature of Porthos’s complaints.

As a form of retribution, Porthos downed another large mouthful of the flask’s contents, earning a glower from Athos that he cheerfully ignored.

Another couple of minutes’ work finished the job, and Porthos inspected Athos’s handiwork with a critical eye.

“Not as neat as Aramis, either,” he decided.

“Next time I’ll leave you to bleed.” Athos reclaimed his flask and settled back against a tree, ignoring the good-natured insults. “I’ll take first watch.”

The ambush they had encountered had proven no match for the two Musketeers, but it, and the need to attend to Porthos’s injury, had succeeded in slowing their progress back to Paris, precipitating the decision to stop for the night and continue their journey in the morning. It was a minor inconvenience of the kind they were well acquainted with.

Athos honestly didn’t mind that he had to spend the hours of darkness alone with Porthos’s feigned ill temper. There were times when he sought solitude, but often he was just as glad of the presence of his friends.

Porthos made himself comfortable on the fallen leaves and moss that were to serve as his bed just a short distance from Athos’s tree, which lay at the edge of the glow from their small fire.

Silence settled over the forest, broken only by the occasional rustle of a passing creature of the night or a gentle breeze playing through the branches of the trees. While remaining alert for any sign of approaching danger, Athos found himself watching the dancing flames as they flickered and crackled, creating an ever-changing play of light and shadow within the clearing. It should have been comforting, but instead triggered memories safer left buried.

Tearing his gaze away, he looked out into the crowd of dark, sentinel trees; the scattered patches of silver moonlight that penetrated the canopy above provided a softer, more appealing glow.

The sound of Porthos rousing himself stirred Athos from his contemplation of the gloomy forest, and he realised more time had passed than he had perceived.

“My turn to take watch.” Porthos’s voice was still a little groggy from sleep, but he dutifully made his way across to Athos to take his place.

“I’ll be fine for a while longer. You get some more rest.”

Knowing full well that Athos would let him sleep the rest of the night, Porthos dropped down beside his companion, shoulder to shoulder, his back also against the broad tree trunk. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here.”

“As you wish.” Athos’s neutral tone belied his pleasure at feeling the warmth of his friend’s body at his side, and the firelight no longer seemed so full of demons with another to ward them off.

“How is your arm?” Athos asked, breaking several minutes of companionable silence.

“That little scratch? It’s nothin’.”

“Then why all the fuss earlier?”

“Perhaps you are a better surgeon than I gave you credit for.”

“Is that a compliment?”

Porthos inclined his head in confirmation. “And my gratitude.”

“You do not need to thank me.” For it went without saying that they would always come to each other’s aid; all three – and now four – of them were so intrinsically linked by a bond of friendship and camaraderie that some things went without saying.

“Maybe I _want_ to.” Porthos shifted so he was looking directly at Athos, and, suddenly, the heat from his proximity climbed several degrees.

Athos tipped his head to the side, glancing sidelong at Porthos, one eyebrow hitched as if to ask what exactly he meant.

Taking it for the invitation it was, the small gap that remained between them disappeared as Porthos leant forward and claimed his lips in a fervent kiss. Athos angled his head up to meet it, his lips parting at the persistent pressure of Porthos’s tongue. A large hand splayed over his thigh, travelling upwards with obvious intent.

“This is hardly the appropriate place, Porthos,” Athos reasoned in a mumble against Porthos’s lips, but even as he spoke he spread his legs a little wider to provide Porthos better access.

Porthos leveled an earnest gaze at him, his hand curling possessively over its goal. “When has that ever stopped me?”

Athos conceded the point with a small dip of his chin. It was all the encouragement Porthos needed; he pushed himself up from the ground and resettled on his knees between Athos’s legs, his hands immediately busy working their way under layers of clothing to unbutton the breeches that were now nothing but an unwanted barrier, all the while keeping Athos’s mouth occupied lest the desire to voice any more protests resurfaced.

Such thoughts had, however, swiftly fled Athos’s mind; as strong fingers finally found their way inside his breeches and grasped ahold of him, he let his eyes close, focused only on the touch of the other man as Porthos stroked him hard.

Then Porthos’s lips were gone from his. Athos drew in air and opened his eyes to the sight of a dark gaze and playful smile that, in the next heartbeat, disappeared as Porthos ducked his head. Before Athos had a chance to prepare for what was about to happen, lips clamped around the head of his cock. He gasped at the sudden rush of heat that surged through him, a sound that became a stuttered groan when Porthos’s tongue flicked across the tip.

A puff of hot breath against his flesh and the twitch of a smile curving around him told Athos that Porthos was pleased by the reaction he had elicited; the bastard loved coaxing him into losing some of his composure, especially when Athos was in no state to issue a reprimand.

Athos pushed the fingers of one hand into Porthos’s hair, not to guide him but as a silent blessing and to fulfill the need for more contact. Thus encouraged, Porthos set about his task with his customary vigour and enthusiasm.

Alternating grazes of teeth and tongue threatened to drive Athos mad, and every time Porthos drew him in deeper and hollowed his cheeks, he fought not to buck up into that inviting warmth. The heels of his boots dug into the ground, his only remaining anchors to the world beyond the plane of need and desire Porthos had so successfully guided him to.

Fingers clasped his balls in a rough caress that sparked pleasure with the pain; heat pooled heavily in his belly and his fingers clenched urgently in Porthos’s hair.

“Porthos…” His voice was a hoarse whisper, but his meaning was clear.

Giving a hum to acknowledge the warning, Porthos nevertheless stayed right where he was. The resultant vibration that travelled the length of his cock sent Athos over the edge and he could do nothing but cling to Porthos as everything he gave was gladly accepted. He barely noticed his head hit the unyielding bark behind it as he was engulfed by a wave of euphoria that flooded all his senses at once.

His heart still pounding like hoof beats in his ears, Athos grasped a handful of leather and hauled Porthos up into a kiss that was in no way refined, clashing teeth, tasting himself on the other man’s tongue, until they were forced to part to regain their breath.

Porthos rested his forehead against Athos’s as they both sucked in air, their breath mingling in the minute space between them. Then Athos was pulling Porthos forward until the larger man was straddling his lap, his usually deft fingers fumbling at the laces of Porthos’s breeches. Desperate now, Porthos helped, pushing the material put of the way so Athos could free his already-hard cock and fist it with a firm grip. Porthos pushed into the tight friction with a low groan.

Athos huffed a soft laugh. “No appeal for me to be more gentle this time?”

“No. Only when you have a needle in your hand.” Porthos's voice was a gruff rumble in his throat.

“Not merely _any_ instrument of equivalent size?”

A snort. “You are fortunate I am so fond of you, Athos.”

Athos gave him his most innocent smile and the comical expression of wounded pride fled from Porthos’s features, replaced with a grin that flashed brightly in the muted light.

Athos coated his fingers in the liquid that wept from Porthos cock and took hold of him once more. “I consider myself extremely fortunate.”

“As do I,” Porthos confessed with a sincerity that struck at Athos’s heart as he coaxed Porthos to his own climax, the fire’s flickering glow enveloping them both in its protective illumination.


End file.
